


Pleasing Secrets

by otherwiseestella



Series: The Things Q Likes [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Desperation, Dirty/fluffy, Fetish, M/M, Masturbation, PWP ish, Pee, Porn with Feelings, Q has a secret kink, Q is otherwise terribly professional, Q lets himself imagine nice things, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is a consummate professional. Of course he is. But occasionally, at home, in private, he lets himself indulge in his very favourite thing.</p>
<p>And the only way it could possibly be better is if he had company - very specific company - but that would absolutely never, ever happen...</p>
<p>Or:</p>
<p>In which Q has a lovely wetting kink, and he's absolutely never going to share it with anyone - but he'd rather like to. PWP-ish. </p>
<p>Please don't read this if you don't like pee!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleasing Secrets

 

 

 

 

‘A pleasure, 009. Have a safe flight.’

 

Q fiddled the earpiece out whilst running up the back stairs, bumping papers.

 

 They were already sitting down as he eased round the glass door.

 

‘Apologies. 009 is now airborne.’

 

‘Not much point in coming, really’, Tanner said morosely, ‘biscuits are off the meeting budget.’

 

M smiled politely, the meeting paused as Q messed around with the milk and sugar. This cup of tea was probably going to be lunch. He wasn’t going to rush it.

 

‘Intentions really feel’, Wright began, waving his fat fingers as if to conjure the rest of the workforce, ‘that we ought to be allocated 50% of the R&D funds.’

 

Someone made a thoughtful noise and Q had to sit on the urge to punch them in their disingenuous throat.

 

Instead, he smiled and passed round a handout: ‘utilising the year-start audits, I have put together a short document examining R&D results. Our output is in measurable: lives saved, and a 30% improvement rate on weapons performance. Intentions, on the other hand…’

 

The meeting lasted three hours, and by the end of it he’d kept full budget and lost any friends he ever had in Intentions. Then, as if just to spite him, 006 had some sort of ridiculous crisis halfway up the Amazon.

 

 

                                                                                                                                 * * *

 

 

So it was seven-thirty when Q closed his front door behind him, and by that time he was almost doubled over with it.  He shoved the Waitrose bags into the kitchen and tried to straighten up, level his breathing.

 

He let himself, for the first time, feel the weight of it,and the way any small movements send a jolt of heat up through his stomach and down to his cock. He pressed one hand to his forehead, scrubbed it over his face. His skin felt electric, hypersensitive. _Chris_ t, but it was amazing. He loved letting himself do this. He’d practically wriggled his way round Waitrose, and there’d been a moment at the till where he’d cramped, almost too much, almost _gone right there._ His ears pinked thinking about it, what would have happened if he’d relaxed, let himself…

 

_Oh fuck_ , he was desperate now. He really, really, really wanted to piss.

 

He was going to do this properly, though, since it had got this far. Where should he let it out? Should he push it out now, messy and wanton, knowing what a dirty boy he was, letting himself piss his trousers deliberately, or should he wait until the moment where it started against his will, whether he wanted to or not, so he could choke with the relief of it and feel like a silly boy who couldn’t even control his bladder, who had accidents and wet himself, who needed comforting and looking after?

 

No. Comforting was for when – if – there was ever company, someone to stroke his back as his pee hissed down his legs, someone to whisper filthy little words of encouragement, what a _good boy_ he was, how it _wasn’t his fault_ and he _tried his best to hold on_ and afterwards, someone to clean him up and spank him soundly for having an accident, and maybe – oh, fuck – maybe he’d get to suck their cock until he drifted off to sleep with cum all over his face.

 

No. Tonight he’d wet deliberately. He wanted to pee in naughty places where he shouldn’t, because Christ, he spent his whole life in control, observing protocol, ensuring he maintained high levels of professionalism. But this? This was selfish. This was just for him, to ground him, to let him feel naughty and young and horny, rather than tired, busy, grave.

 

His bladder cramped again. He glanced round the flat, opened the linen cupboard for a handful of towels, and slipped the door to the spare bedroom.

 

_Oh fuck_ his bladder full. His breathing was shallow and his cock couldn’t decide, half-hard and pressed against his placket, if it wanted to piss or come or both. He leaned against the door, letting one hand snake around his neck and dragged his nails hard across his sensitive nape. The nerve endings sang and he was so close, so close to letting go.

 

He closed his eyes, back pressed against the door, and moved his hand down further to run his fingers across his fabric-covered cock, coaxing it to grow fuller.

 

Behind his eyelids, the fantasy started.  He’d tried to stop thinking about it, but his subconscious was as stubborn as the rest of him. It always started with _him_ \-  just watching, sardonic grin giving nothing away. Blue eyes brim-full of lazy arrogance, as if he didn’t much care either way what the filthy Quartermaster got up to in his spare time. The humiliation having _him_ watch him doing this, judging him, and not knowing whether or not he found it erotic, the knife-edge of doubt – that was what made Q blush with shame, even though he was alone.

 

The pressure of his bladder was constant, a delicious pain that made him lick his lips as he imagined Bond running his hand once down over his own crotch, the only indication that he was even remotely interested in Q’s little show. 

 

Oh God, he would be so embarrassed by it all, by pissing his trousers in front of 007, unable to look him in the eye as the hot liquid ran down his legs.

 

He imagined Bond’s eyebrow raising, the way his eyes might travel down to Q’s crotch to watch the fabric darkening around his cock.

 

The thought made his cock pulse and he wrapped his fingers round it tightly, dipping his thumb over the top where precum had already started to bead. He wanted to let go, he wanted to be naughty and empty his bladder where he was standing, into his pants and trousers, all over the carpet, but he was too hard. Too hard and it felt too good, the way the quick firm strokes spread the wetness down his shaft and made his hand sticky.

 

It was extremely unlikely it was that 007 would wish to indulge in any carnal activity with him, let alone a _perversion_ that he’d never shared with anyone. But he loved the thought of him watching, or of his deep, slow drawl. Just the idea made him see stars: ‘ _a dirty little boy? You never fail to surprise, Quartermaster. Let’s see then. Let it go for me. Let’s  see you. Go on, let go.’_

He’d be a good boy for him, _fuck_ , he’d let go on demand and embarrass himself, let his self-control drop. He’d fall to his knees and swallow Bond’s cock. At the same time, he’d feel the first spurts of his piss leaked into the warmth of his cotton underwear, making it damp and soft and so good against his skin.

 

‘Fuck. Oh, fuck, oh- -’ He gasped and twisted, pulled his cock in short, hard strokes, bucked into his tight fist until –

 

His orgasm was hot and tight, the white flash behind his eyes echoed in the sudden heat of his blood. Bracing himself against the door, he knew he was making noises, gasps and little shuddering moans, but he couldn’t quite stay quiet. He’d known he would come hard – he always did, on the occasions he indulged like this, but it was almost too much - too hard, too bright.

 

His spend was spattered across the front of his trousers, messing his hands, spurting onto the carpet. White and thick and the pulse of it, the weak final contractions that felt a little like pissing merged into the overwhelming need to go _right now_.

 

His bitten lips opened round a sigh and he tipped his head back against the wood. Trembling with the urgency of it he slipped his cock, still almost completely hard, back inside his briefs.

 

Then he breathed in, once, pushed down against his bladder and felt – finally - the _\- oh, now, now now -_ rush of piss. It took agonizing seconds, his body almost rigid with anticipation as he felt it build inside his cock, and then…

 

_Oh god_ it was good. The first spurt was so hard he could hear it hitting his boxers. And the heat of it, flooding round his balls and making his breath catch.

 

He leant forward – there was so much, the stream was so strong, and he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t have stopped peeing if armed robbers had burst through the door.

 

The piss hissed into his trousers, drenching his legs and the wet patch grew, over his arse and down the inside of his thighs.

 

He wanted to lie down, mess the carpet, and lie in a puddle of his own piss like a naughty little boy. He shut his eyes against the urge but – well - he was already soaking and debauched.

 

He half-threw one of the towels down and bent over until he was kneeling, stopping the flow for a second as he settled on his front and closed his eyes. A short, hard stream spurted out, flooding the towel and creeping up his shirt.

 

_God_ , there was so much piss. What on earth must he look like? He kept himself so neat, so orderly at work, and at those endless after-work functions. Nothing like this. They’d be shocked. It was almost unimaginable that he might not only entertain but also exercise such _perversions_ , and the fact he did, that they were his, and private, only made them more precious, more important - _dirtier_.

 

 He’d been desperate for hours and now he could finally let it out wherever he wanted, piss himself and make a mess and not worry about everything being perfect. He could make as much mess as he wanted.

 

The relief was heady and disorienting, as good – if not better – than the full-bladder orgasm he’d had minutes before. He was desperate for someone to fuck him like this, when he was full to bursting, and to order him to lose control whilst they did it, force him to wet himself whilst they pounded into him, hard and punishing, treating him like the depraved little slut he was.

 

_Fuck_ but the towel was soaked, the pale carpet underneath squelching, his trousers so wet he could wring them out, and his shirt transparent. He grinned into the floor, eyes still closed, hands at his crotch so he could feel the hot wet stream rushing out of his dick, soiling his clothes and the messing the carpet, filling his cupped palms with pee. Oh, he’d struggled to accept this, gone years without it, but he liked it, liked the naughtiness and the dirtiness and the way it made him feel.

 

His stream was slowing. He pushed against the floor, grinding as he let the last seconds of his it out into his hands, up against his shirt. His pee hissed and waned, warm and comforting around his cock, trickling over his wet bollocks. He sighed.

 

His cock twitched, trying to get hard again, but he felt sated, exhausted, and a little bit weak at the knees. He lifted himself up slowly, his brow furrowing when he saw the size of the wet patch.

 

_Shit_. It was larger than he’d thought.

 

It would be fine. Clothes in the wash, carpet cleaner, cup of tea, bed. He was tired and fuzzy, barely able to stand on coltish legs.

 

It was so intense, the relief of it, the way it cleared his mind. It would be better, he thought, if there were someone to clean him up now, sponge him down, dry him thoroughly, take his glasses off and hold the bed covers open for him to slip down into.

 

He turned the radio on as he walked to the kitchen, stripping off on the tiles to the soothing burble of Radio Four. He shoved everything into the washing machine as the news came on.

 

By the time it was finished – and they hadn’t picked up anything about Chile, apparently, well done 002 – he’d showered, slipped on his soft flannel pajama bottoms, and was halfway to the spare room with a bottle of carpet cleaner when –

 

 

‘This is a secure line.’ Q answers.

 

‘I’m sure it is. I’m outside your door.’

 

It would have been terribly unprofessional to drop the phone.  ‘No you aren’t’, Q said, ‘you’re about twenty minutes away from interrupting a drug hand-off in Paris.’

 

‘Incorrect, Quartermaster.’

 

Q drew a steadying breath that had almost no beneficial effect, ‘that door is reinforced steel.’

 

‘Still have all my kit.’

 

‘Don’t even think about it.’ Christ. There was stalling for time, and then there was attempting to prevent an agent of Her Majesty’s Government from blowing up his front door.

 

The agent spoke again, voice edged with amusement, ‘your door is currently standing between me and your first aid kit.’

 

Q had it open in seconds. The agent was lounging against the doorjamb in a fairly bloodstained  –

 

‘A pilot’s uniform?’

 

‘I took the plane as well, if that helps.’ Bond looked him over, moving one arm aside so that Q could see the blossoming stain on the white shirt.

 

He kept his voice level, and his eyes calm: ‘I suppose you had better come in.’

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't read this if you don't like pee!
> 
> There isn't much in the way of watersports in this fandom, so this is my little contribution.
> 
> Doubtless there will be a second part. And possible a third.
> 
> Also, I would really, really like a beta - any offers?


End file.
